Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Stanley


Today June had her 4 month check-up. She's a robust 15-and-a-half-pounds (70th percentile), 25 inches long (65th percentile) and is in picture perfect health. My heart soared at the news. As much as I gripe about being one more ignored phone call away from creditors sending the hired goons, and living where God lost his shoes, I've got this exceptionally healthy baby and, holy crap, am I grateful.

In addition, she is, and this a professional assessment, a staggeringly good natured baby. I woke her up from her nap in the carseat, handed her to the doctor to be undressed, prodded and measured and June simply smiled through it all. She got some more vaccinations -- a process that reduced her to tears, but only for a minute. June's pediatrician shook her head and said, "She's a really good baby. Don't tell your friends.

Whoops! Too late. Obnoxious braggart alert. As if the flipbook on Facebook wasn't bad enough.

But I have to give props to her doctor, whom we were referred to by friends. Mellow, knowledgeable, available and responsive, she exceeded all my expectations for what a pediatrician could and should be. Her office is clean and quiet, and her staff friendly and professional. I assumed that pediatricians' offices mainly served to strike fear into the hearts of children and their parents alike. At least that's what I had experienced.

No offense to Dr. Stanley (name changed to protect the questionably innocent), my pediatrician.

Now, don't get me wrong, Dr. Stanley was a nice enough guy -- a sort of good looking older fellow, too. He kind of had a Tom Brokaw thing working. But his office was like a Calcutta bus station. You've never seen such strains of communicable disease and misery as you did in his waiting room. Screaming children, irritable parents, pissed-off receptionists, "Highlights" magazines abused eight ways from Sunday... it was horrible. Add into the mix stacks upon stacks of wooden puzzles with more pieces missing than intact, and an antique typewriter collection serving as a petri dish for even more violent maladies than those sickly brats came in with. On top of that they were an absurd safety hazard. Those things were about 40 pounds a piece and nothing but sharp edges. What a bad freaking decorating theme for a 10-by-10 foot room filled with nothing but spazzy kids delirious with fever.

And man oh man, they call it a waiting room for a reason. It didn't matter if there were two people in that room or 20, you still expected to wait a good 45 minutes before Dr. Stanley could see you, all the while sitting in a toddler-sized wooden chair and praying to sweet Jesus that the kid with eye patch kept his distance.

The nice thing was I didn't see Dr. Stanley all that often. As I've mentioned, being child No. 3 had its disadvantages, but it also had its advantages. Like only getting to the doctor if I was vomiting blood or had a toe dangling off my foot or something. A visit to Dr. Stanley meant you were real dang sick, or were up for a yearly well visit. Kids at school would be out for a couple days with the stomach flu, coming back and saying something like, "Well, the doctor said I should take it easy, and..." "Wait a sec," I'd interrupt. "You went to the doctor for the stomach flu?" Phhhllllt, I thought. Whiny first-born wimps.

I have heaped a lot of resentment onto Dr. Stanley, thanks to one of my life's greatest unmet promises. Well, actually laughably late met. When I was about 11 or 12, I saw Dr. Stanley for a routine physical. He gave me the once-over and then told my mom, in the room, "Expect Kerry to have some physical changes soon, like getting breasts."

I was horrified. And a little thrilled. I remember recounting Dr. Stanley's words to my Sacred Heart classmates while being tossed around on the Tumble Gym in the school yard. Only I wouldn't say "breasts" because that simply was not done if you were 11 or 12 at Sacred Heart. I'm sure I just pointed to the region which triggered a delighted cacophony of "ewwwwws" and "groosssses."

So there I was, 11 or 12 and on the cusp of chesty greatness. Or so I thought.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Aaaaaaand waited.

I think something popped up around junior year of college, but then it was due in large part to my steady diet of Crepe Nutellas, foot-long meringues and deux franc wine during my semester abroad in Paris. Yes, I grew a rack, but I also had the butt to match. I got home and everyone back at school thought I had gone to Europe and gotten implants. "Look down, people!" I'd wail. "Look down!"

Alors.

But so far June's pediatrician's educated guesses have been pretty accurate. Her rapid weight gain will normalize, her grabbing will become more precise and graceful, she will recognize her name more and more. When we got home I put her in her little exersaucer thing for the first time. Well, Greg's put her in before but it was my first time witnessing it. She's still too small for it, so I stuffed a towel behind her and a paperback copy of "Shantaram" under her footie-clad toes and watched her fiddle with the toys mounted to its plastic tray. I cried as she stared, fascinated at the little pandas on the red bamboo seesaw and swatted at the little spinning tucan. When did she get so old, I thought.

And tomorrow, older still.

Wah.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

flights of fancy


We returned from our trip to Phoenix last night. It wasn't June's first dalliance with air travel, but it was definitely her most impressive.

As you may have inferred from previous entries, we live on Mars (or as my dad pointed out, Mars is too close. We're on one of those planets that just has numbers for a name). So merely getting to the airport is a challenge -- about an hour-and-a-half in the car. The flight out to Phoenix, with a headwind, took nearly six hours and had us landing about an hour after her regular bedtime. Save for a little squirming, June was a giggling, power-eating, cat-napping dream. The way home was even better.

Sure, there was that tense ten minutes of turbulence where June, in my lap, was filling her diaper so rapidly that we were in real danger of baby crude bubbling into the aisles. I wound up plugging the back of her diaper with a "top kill" wipe, of which we were running dangerously low, until that blasted "fasten seat belt" light went off and I could make a bee-line for the bathroom, diaper vibrating in my hands. We got into the bathroom and June cried for the first time. Catharsis, I thought.

Then there was the instance where June, too captivated by all the faces around her to eat, jerked her head back suddenly, exposing a very personal part of me for the flight attendant making faces at her. I whipped my hand forward to cover my bits, getting the nerp at an angle and sending a laser sight stream of milk across the aisle toward the heavily tattooed young lad reading "Dirt Bike" magazine. I didn't dare make eye contact with him. Our contact was much more personal.

But that, I reckon, is traveling with babies. There are pain-in-the-butt moments, like security or not being able to read at length on the plane, but having done air travel with her by myself, I can't complain at all about this journey. Actually, I can't complain about either. She was remarkably good. I'm glad that we've been able to get it under our belts while she is so young.

Greg and I were talking recently how we want June to develop a love of traveling, given it's the best school there is. As Greg said, "I want her to be able to stick her face into the world and not fear it."

I wholeheartedly agree. My pragmatic side, that is. My irrational, worried, mothering side says, "Sure she can travel internationally. But not until she's 25 and only while wearing one of those kiddie leashes tethered to me."

I made my first international flight, by myself, at age 12. Not bad. Granted, it was a direct flight from Shannon, Ireland to Chicago and I was hopped up on Lion Bars and free Coke, but that is a big deal for a young kid. Especially one who was a bit of an anxious traveler. A 20-minute train ride to Chicago, at that stage of my life, had me dry-heaving into my Esprit tote bag, so careening over an ocean in a tin can was akin to summitting K2 for me. I wrote my college essay about that. God, that's pathetic.

I'm not sure how my parents felt about that, given what a wimp I was, but I'm guessing they didn't lose too much sleep over it since I was child No. 3 out of 4. If I went down in a flaming heap, they'd still have three others. Three quieter others.

But all those milestones for "Uno One-o", as my grandfather would say, will send me into premature myocardial infarction territory. I've long thought that the most terrifying moment for a parent would be to send your child off on a bike, by him or herself, for the very first time. I've planned on getting June one of those retractable leashes for when that day comes.

Two years ago, flying back to the states from Ireland for Trish and Dave's wedding, we hit some weather snags on our way into O'Hare (I still had a connecting flight to Springfield, Mo. from there) and wound up landing in Detroit to refuel. That refuel stop wound up being several hours on the tarmac and an eventual deplaning close to midnight. There was a whole lot more to this story but I've learned that if there's one thing more maddening than listening to someone whine about money, it's listening to someone whine about travel so I'll leave it at that. Long story short, I wound up staying in Detroit that night and flying back out first thing the next morning.

But I wasn't alone. I wound up with a 12-year-old Irish ward for the night. She was seated next to me on the plane from Dublin to Chicago and the only words we exchanged during the flight were "Mind if I scoot by to go to the bathroom?" and "Are you going to eat that lasagna?" I assumed she was older, as she had a giant rack. But the fact that she ate only Wine Gums and watched Beyonce videos on the seatback in-flight entertainment system for the entire eight hours we were in the air should have been a better indication of her age.

Her cellphone didn't work in the States, so when we were grounded in Detroit she asked to use mine. I heard her speaking to her parents in Chicago about our unfortunate lot, and then she turned her head away and started speaking in hushed tones. She then turned back toward me, face reddened, and said, "My stepmom wants to speak to you."

I took my phone back and on the other end was her friendly, frantic stepmom. She explained that Hannah, the girl, had been in Galway for the summer visiting family and was on her way to Chicago to stay with her, Hannah's dad and their weeks-old new baby girl before heading home. The stepmom asked me to keep an eye on Hannah, as this was a particularly trying time for any traveler, much less a tween. I assured her she was in good hands and that we'd stick together. I didn't mention I had a slight buzz on from those mini wine bottles they give you on the plane. And that I had eaten her daughter's dinner.

What was promised to be a slight detour wound up a clusterf*ck tour de force that had passengers mobbing around a baggage carousel for luggage that never came, flocking the last open newsagent for water we were denied while on the tarmac for hours, and lining up for hotel assignments without a lick of an idea of how we were getting back to Chicago the following day.

I watched two different couples pass sleeping infants back and forth to each other, bodies awash in fatigue, and my heart broke for them. I resolved to stop complaining about the situation.

Hannah and I got to know each other. She and her mom had moved to the Bay Area a couple of years earlier but she spent summers back in Ireland. She was her parents' only child before they left Ireland and divorced, until her dad remarried and had this new baby, and she couldn't wait to meet her. Hannah's dad was a contractor and they were very close. We chatted all the way to our assigned hotel, where I paid for our adjoining rooms. She ate more Wine Gums. I had a Sam Adams for dinner.

After many phone calls and online checks (thank God I had my computer) we seemed to have a plan. Her dad bought me a plane ticket back to Chicago-Midway with Hannah on a different airline. I was able to wrangle a connecting flight to Springfield from O'Hare. Don't worry about making the connection, Hannah told me, my dad will take care of you.

The next morning Hannah and I were on the first flight out of Detroit. Her dad, black hair appropriately mussed and eyes dimmed from lack of sleep, hustled toward us at the Midway baggage claim.

"Jaysus," he said as he clutched his daughter. "What a fooking nightmare, roight?"

He then hugged me hard and said, "Great to meet you, Kerry."

Hannah's dad bought me a Starbucks coffee and a breakfast sandwich as we drove to O'Hare. He told us about the new baby who would have kept him up even if our flight snafus hadn't. He and Hannah laughed about her grandmother back in Galway lighting candles in church for her safe return. I saw how close they were.

We arrived at O'Hare and they exited the car to give me a hug goodbye. It had been a real crap night, but I felt luckier to have met Hannah than the other way around.

As I sleepwalked to my connecting flight, I thought about what that conversation was like between Hannah and her stepmom when we were stuck in Detroit 12 hours earlier. Where are you seated, her stepmom likely asked. Between an old man and some chick who giggled every time the flight attendants said "Aer Lingus," Hannah would reply. After not a small amount of deliberation, stepmom asked Hannah to put me on the phone. That's an insane level of trust, I thought.

Poor June. That's going to be one long leash.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Have to get away


We're headed to Phoenix tomorrow until Monday to visit dear family and friends. June's first glimpse of the sun. Under the canopy of an SPF shell.

I am so ready to get the hell out of New Hampshire.

About 60 percent of an entry was hammered out this morning, but it's been a full day of errands and such so it founders in waiting. Stay tuned for all your baby fashion questions answered! Or posited! Or... whatever.

I imagine there will be quite a bit to ruminate on upon our return. Between traveling, time adjustments, interactions with another baby (our good friends, the Faux's son Ryder) and bringing my baby to the city of my birth, there might be a few things that get me going. I remember very little from the Leonard Phoenix days, as we moved when I was 2. Nevertheless, I have some hazy memories of bright sunlight, a pool and vomiting on our kitchen counter. It's going to be great to relive that with my baby.

In the meantime, I have to hit the hay. Much to do in the morning.

Until next week ...

Monday, March 21, 2011

It pours


Greg and I watched "MacGruber" in its entirety last night.

I found it concurrently awful and amazing. I doubt I'm alone.

It kept me up, however, fretting at around 2 a.m. last night.

Who bankrolled this?

Was it that popular of an SNL sketch?

Is Val Kilmer's career dead?

Hasn't Lorne Michaels learned anything?

I found it more comforting to worry about "MacGruber's" financing than our own. That's the beauty of pictures, I reckon. Escape reality. Even if it means worrying about someone else keeping the lights on -- and staring at the digital alarm clock wondering if Ryan Phillippe dropping that ridiculous pout was a calculated career move or something he did for the role. Aaaaand action!

Thing is, I quit my job. I ultimately made the decision to stay home. Greg has been 100 percent supportive. Do I have a leg to stand on in the fretting department? I could be working and helping out financially. But it's not like the halved paycheck I'd be bringing home, less daycare, would be keeping us flush in craft beers. I'd still be dodging calls from 800 numbers, hoarding quarters to buy coffee, and stewing about "MacGruber." That and walking around all day a shell of a person because I miss my baby so much? Not worth it. Welcome to parenthood.

I had a meltdown on Friday that lasted well into Saturday, stoked by weapons-grade cabin fever, a self-diagnosed raging case of Seasonal Affective Disorder and the ol' our-ceiling-is-raining-rodent-turd blahs.

June was hunkered down on "Studio Junebug," also known as her little playmat thingie, gurgling, batting at plush animals and drooling -- living the baby dream. I was puttering around her room, straightening up and whatnot when I noticed dirt on her crib sheet. I leaned in to get a closer look at one particular chunk -- oblong, dark, roughly the size of a 14-pt exclamation mark.

"Is that... no ... it can't be... please don't let it be ..."

And just when I realized the likelihood of its origins (I imagined I was making a Sydney Bristow end-of-episode face at this point. Greg and I are revisiting "Alias."), a gust of wind from outside surged through the rafters and another scattering (pun intended) of god knows what fell from the sketchy covered crawl space in our even sketchier dropped ceiling and right onto where her sweet face would be if she was asleep.

Cue meltdown.

I stared at the growing pile in disgusted rage before flying into action and cleaning it up. June, being the sweet, good-natured baby that she is, just looked up at me from the nearby mat and smiled. I imagined she was thinking, "Hmmm, why does the one with the boobs have such red eyes, and why is she making noises like I do when they put my arms in sleeves? In other news, ooooh, this fist tastes delicious."

I leaned over and pressed the belly of her musical, bicurious (he wears a bow tie and a sailor's cap) octopus to fill the air with its boisterous classical midi files and cover the sounds of my heaving sobs. I must have been a pitiful sight.

It was a pretty over-the-top parenting metaphor. Despite my best efforts, shit's going to fall on this child. That's life, that's growing up. I can't protect her from everything bad. But we can move her crib. So Greg did.

Dante Bellini, friend from Providence, sent me a quote from an author he's reading that said something akin to child rearing being an exercise in "screaming vulnerability."

Amen.

It seems like in the past few weeks her growth progression has malfunctioned and been set to "high speed." She's hitting milestones daily and changing at a pace that my itchy camera trigger finger can't keep up with. Any day now she'll roll over. Then sit up. Then crawl. Then get her driver's license, go to college, get married and move away from me. People warned me it would go by fast. I wasn't prepared with how fast.

It both breaks my heart and makes it swell with pride.

The "MacGruber" effect.

I've said since she was born that I want to clone her -- keep one June as she is at that very moment and let the other June grow. That's never been more true than right now. I mean, she's laughing now -- laughing! -- talk about speaking my language. This June will stay in my arms while the other June makes her meteoric trip through life. That's a fair plan, I think.

I was looking at some photos last night of her first month. I thought she was such a substantial baby -- robust, strong and hardy -- when in fact she was just as small as every other seven-and-a-half-pound newborn out there, sleepy, frail and curled up in my arms like a kitten.

I look at her now and she's a giant -- but babies just six months older point in fascination at her diminutive size. However, she's a big gal for her age, hovering in the 95th percentile. But size is relative. Next to her cousin Sam, about a year her senior, she looks like a Polly Pocket.

I just called her doctor to find out how to proceed with sunblock and other protection when we head to Phoenix in two days. Confirming what I already knew, she said, "Keep her out of the sun."

I may not be able to protect her from everything bad life tosses her way, but I can do more than I realize.

Friday, March 18, 2011

blue gene baby queen


Two days ago I took June to the pediatrician to have her little nose checked out. She's had persistent congestion since she was sick about a month ago, and within the last couple days it's started to interfere with her eating to the point where she can't quite get a good breath, starts gagging and loses interest early on. Not good, we thought. So off we went.

The eating has been the only disruption. She sleeps through the night, is extremely happy, active and growing. Doc stuck various instruments in June's nostrils, ears, mouth and armpits, June bobbled around with her perpetual gummy smile, and Doc ascertained that she's totally healthy, save for a little nasal inflammation that is lingering thanks to the weather. Some prescription nose spray was doled out and we headed home.

Doc also said that she has narrow airways, so she might just be a congested kid. I had a feeling that might be the case. Freaking genetics, I thought. My parents have named and given a precise time table to every stage of a cold. My dad has combed the earth in search of the perfect facial tissue. His find? A Brawny paper towel. My siblings and I have collectively put the children of Pfizer's allergy drug makers through college. I imagined June as a curious kindergartner, looking at family photos and piecing together her hodge-podge traits to see who she favored.

"I got my dad's eye shape," she'd say, "His strong profile and smile."

She'd turn a page of the family album and sigh, spotting a photo of her mother in mid-sneeze.

"My mom gave me her constricted nasal passages."

When I was pregnant, Greg and I would lie in bed, hands on the undulating belly, and imagine what our little girl might look like.

"I hope she gets your skin tone," I'd tell Greg. "and your mouth and eyes."

"I hope she gets your height and hair," he'd reply. "and your ability to fix toilets."

The hindered Leonard respiratory system didn't factor into our fantasies.

It's been pretty fascinating watching this baby grow and develop traits reminiscent of one or both of us. Neither Greg nor I look a whole lot like our baby photos. You know how there are some people you can see photos of as kids and they look just like they do as adults? Not us. So I don't think June strongly resembles either of us now. But others say differently.

I hear from people that she's a combo of the two of us; my brother Matt swears she's the head of Greg, while my father-in-law looked at baby photos of me and said if he didn't know better he'd think they were June. She definitely has her dad's eye shape and his profile. My dear friend Beth said, "I hate to tell you this, but she's got your coloring," knowing how I've grappled with the fair skin.

Whatever this formula is, it's working. I'm a little biased, but I think she's one adorable kid. And her coloring, already, is WAY better than mine.

There are also the intangibles. Greg and I are both happy, easily contented people and I'm seeing similar in June. She loves being outside, like her dad, and gets a big kick out of watching me make a fool of myself, something I can certainly appreciate. She's strong and active, smiles constantly, and has a hearty appetite. Be it genetics or just the way the chips fell, we are a couple of lucky chromosome donors.

It might be time to begin stockpiling the Kleenex, however.

Greg just walked in, looked at her snoozing in her swing and said, "She looks like both of us when she sleeps."

He's right. She does. But she's snoring like a grown man, which is all me. But if she doesn't care, I don't either.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

The Paddy bandwagon


June's especially pukey today. Happy St. Patrick's Day indeed.

Sure, I'm of Irish (among other nationalities) heritage, but I never cared much for St. Patrick's Day. I think college soured me on it. All those kids named Caputo and Agnelli getting hammered and wearing "Kiss Me I'm Irish" tee shirts and shamrock antenna headbands sorta just makes you want to wear black and stay inside. So I did.

Chicago fancies itself an Irish city, what with the Daleys and the green-dyed river and Beverly, but I never took part in any festivities while living there. Correction, there was one pub crawl (in Oak Park) but that's it. Never did a parade, never wore green, never even went to see the radioactive-looking river. I sipped vodka and acted superior. Ha.

I would snootily think, "what do you people know of being Irish?" I had seen the family farm, visited relatives and had an Irish girl as a best friend. Your last name is Murphy? You're 34.5% Irish? Big frigging deal.

What a little brat I was.

I am very proud of being (mostly) Irish. I like that kinship, that shared history and the legacy of music and storytelling. Spoose, a first generation Irish-American, certainly had a lot to do with that (Ask him about his late father-in-law and likely he'll reply with this epithet: "George, that English son of a bitch." The resentment still runs deep). More influential however was practically living with the O'Driscolls for a good chunk of my childhood. Pauline and Finbarr were Cork natives living in Kerry with their four kids when a job transfer brought them to Illinois in 1983. Trish will tell you that it was like descending on another planet. One without "loos" and "bins." Terrifying.

The four kids -- Ronan, Tracey, Tricia and Barry -- were all either within one year or the same age as us. Immediately there was a strong familiarity. But it was around third grade that Trish and I got freakishly close. I remember playing in their pool (yes, they had a pool), doing our "it's better in the Bahamas" routine, when Trish emerged from under water and said, "You're my best friend." I blinked hard to see through the chlorine and then sunk back into the deep end, at a loss of how to reply. It seemed like such a big commitment, having a best friend, and I wasn't sure if I was ready for it.

Like anyone apprehensive about getting hurt in a relationship, I sat on it for 24 hours. The next day we were back in the pool having a canonball contest. It was a convenient foil for my nerves, all that splashing. I swatted a leaf off the water and dove in.

"You're my best friend, too."

From then on we were inseparable -- the gruesome twosome, Walter and Cecilia, Trish and Ker. We even had our portrait taken together -- at arguably the most heinous stage two kids could ever go through. (It hung in an ornate gilt frame in their Barefield dining room until recently.) The poor O'Driscolls -- like they didn't have enough on their plates with four kids, there was this awkward preteen eating them out of Micro Magic french fries and home lurking about damn near constantly. I remember one instance having to borrow underwear from Tricia because I had spent so many consecutive days under their roof. If I recall, they said "Tuesday" but I was wearing them on a Sunday. It wasn't unusual that I would return home with an accent and a loaf of soda bread under my arm.

The Irish get a bad rap for being bland eaters and unimaginative dressers, but I credit the O'Driscolls with introducing me to, among other things, onions, pistachio nuts, kiwis and accessorizing. Trish always had a snazzy vest and a brooch to cap an outfit, Tracey had that amazing "Florida" crop top with fringe, and Mrs. O'Driscoll had a dress that was comprised entirely of sequins. It was stored in a garment bag in their guest room, and Trish and I would unzip it and stare, fantasizing about what it must be like to wear such a treasure. The light from the window would hit the dress and send prisms of color onto the navy blue comforters on the twin beds, dazzling us. It was the most glamorous thing I had ever seen.

There was also art. Ronan had a poster in his bedroom of a Salvador Dali painting where a robot on a post-apocalyptic landscape was zapping the clothes right off a woman. I remember staring at it and it feeling so illicit.

Then there was Ron of Japan, "The Gods Must Be Crazy," Queen, Chaka Khan and Mayfair magazine. I did a lot of growing up on Pine Tree Lane.

When they moved back to Ireland when I was 12, I was devastated. My best friend was an ocean away, and with her a family I loved almost as much as my own. Trish and I shared esoteric interests, a language and practically strains of DNA. People would mistake us for sisters. We were abnormally close for kids -- we felt like a couple of quirky outsiders that didn't need an inside as long as we had each other.

I remember Trish calling me to break the news that they were leaving two months earlier than expected. I hung up on her. As if it were her decision.

But you've got to hand it to a couple of kids in the pre-digital age. We wrote to each other unceasingly, indulged in the occasional international phone call, and shared visits on a near annual basis. My first international flight was to see her a couple months after she moved. I was terrified, as I suffered a psycho degree of motion sickness. I'd get so worried about throwing up that I'd start throwing up weeks before even leaving the house. It was pathetic. Anyway, the need to see Trish trumped all my irrational fears.

I drove a tractor on that trip, chased loosed bullock back into a field after a lightning storm blew out an electric fence, dangled my feet off a cliff, and didn't throw up once. It changed that 12-year-old girl.

Years later when I was studying abroad in Paris, a debilitating attack of homesickness left me depressed and physically ill. I flew to Ireland to be with the O'Driscolls at Trinaderry for emotional and physical convalescence. It changed that 20-year-old girl.

Trish and her husband Dave will be here to visit in exactly one month and I cannot wait to see her. And for June, young as she is, to get her first brush with O'Driscoll greatness.

Greg, who is also part Irish, has never been there, and we've talked about how it would be a good trip to take with June while she's young. They both know so much about me, but they don't know this about me. That needs to change.

It's funny to think that June doesn't have that same potency of Irish blood running through her, not that it matters. If anything I'm grateful that she may not need to sheep-dip herself in SPF 1000 to walk to the mailbox. But I do hope she can appreciate that little part of her. And that maybe she'll be lucky enough to have a Trish of her own to help her along.

In the meantime, today she'll be wearing black. Like her mom.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

spring cleaning


Yesterday felt like it could be spring sometime soon. Well, soonish.

It was about 50 degrees, the sun was shining, the ice fishermen had retreated off Mascoma Lake, and I was wearing outerwear without sleeves. The vest made its spring 2k11 debut. Hallelujah.

June, however, remained impossibly bundled. Long sleeved onesie, long-sleeved romper, fuzzy coat, hat and legwarmers. She was exposed to the elements for a sum total of about 75 seconds while we ran errands. I can't have that gal feeling chilly. Just ask my mom about the 1983 Cricket Camp group photo and the only kid wearing a sweater. The only kid out of about 150. In July.

The impossibly bundled apple doesn't fall far, I reckon.

We were out to lighten our sartorial load, dropping several boxes and a Hefty bagful of clothes at the secondhand store. It felt good to declutter, but I have trouble unloading stuff so there was a little apprehension. And that's all it was, stuff. Ill-fitting pants, uncomfortable, worn-out shoes, shrunken shirts, moth-aerated sweaters; crap. Gone, out, away with you. With reservations.

I still have too much, but one traumatic cleanse at a time.

One category conspicuously absent from our dropoff was baby clothes. June's old enough that she has grown out of quite a bit -- a large plastic bin's worth of items, and every day the lot is expanding. But that pile is staying put. Yes, yes, for if/when we have another, sure. But even if June winds up our only child, that bin of doll-sized clothing is making every move with us, so help me.

I have mentioned before that I have several pregnant friends. Ladies, I love you, I really do, but I'm afraid I can't part with these clothes. I just can't do it. Yup, even that set of boy's jammies she never wore. But she could have worth them, therefore I will never part with them.

Our friends Val and Chris loaned us so much clothes, gear and equipment after their son outgrew them that we're unsure of how to begin to thank them. It was unyielding. I really wish I could be more of a pay-it-forward kind of person like Val or Chris, but I'm coming to terms with the idea that I'm just more of a pay-it-stay-exactly-where-you-are kinda broad.

Greg's reading this and shaking his head, I'm sure. The guy has spent months of his life living in the wilderness, employing only the no-frills survival items in his backpack. I pack a "just in case" tube of mascara when I run out to buy milk. Somehow he loves me.

But this isn't pack rat-ism, this is June. It's the white terrycloth romper we took her home from the hospital in, the "junebug jammies" from Momo, the hat my mom knitted her. The turd-stained onesies unfit for human re-use. But I will never get rid of those. NEVER!

Then there are the extra-wee (unused) diapers I held on to, the blue and pink striped tuques the hospital staff put on her after she was born, and those pill-prone swaddling blankets printed with baby footprints that I would sleep with while the nurses were watching June so we could rest. I think a lot of people can identify with me not wanting to let go of these things.

More vividly than her actual birth, I recall that first night she was alive, and Cindy, the know-it-all but sweet night nurse on duty, opening the heavy door and pushing aside the curtains to head into our room. She was wheeling June in what Greg liked to call "the casserole dish," that elevated, plastic-sided crib-on-wheels, and when the light from the hallway hit our baby's face, I felt my heart seize. Her slate eyes peeping out underneath that tuque were saucers, canvassing the room through what must have been newborn wax paper. Her mouth was open in this perpetual look of delighted surprise, with her little tongue darting in and out -- a miraculously engineered hunger signal. No cries, no squirms, just wide-eyed fascination wrapped up like a gyro. I remember gasping, saying "Junebug, I missed you!" then crying as she looked into my face, both of us dazed, exhausted, but too interested in each other to blink. Greg stirred from the world's most uncomfortable pullout couch across the room as Cindy walked out. And there we were. Tuques, swaddle blankets and three happy saps.

Lest you think I'm purely sentimental and not bat-you-know-what insane, I've also saved the three pee-logged, pink-striped home pregnancy tests indicating our little Bug was headed Trotter-ward. That ain't right.

Missions like yesterday's make me feel good that I am capable of purging meaningless junk from my life and am not necessarily headed down a Spoose-like path.

Now, I love my grandfather to pieces, I "couldn't carry his shoes," to quote him, but the man knows how to hang on to old shite. Having gotten sucked into a "Confession: Animal Hoarders" marathon not long ago, I think I can now distinguish the difference between illness and idiosyncrasy. But years ago when I was dispatched (punished?) to Phoenix to help my grandparents pack up their home for their move back to the Chicago area, the behavior seemed to lean heavily into Column A.

Hearing the string of cusswords coming from their garage-cum-storage facility, followed immediately by the violent sneezes of someone who has happened upon a most potent strain of dust, the kind that attaches itself to 12 to 14 shoe shine kits, Moose appeared with a red plastic keg cup filled with vodka, handing it to me with a wink.

It was 10 a.m.

That vodka did help, the bottomless keg cup that it was, but I found myself in need of something a lot stronger when I unearthed some notable items. There was the printer paper carton full of yearly date books, at least two dozen of them, with only Spoose's name filled out in each; the lockbox full of car keys, none of which operated their current automobile; and my personal favorite, the file box stuffed with cards bearing glossary terms from the 1979 Arizona Real Estate exam. To my knowledge, this is not an exam Spoose ever took.

I unloaded a Dumpster's worth of Spoose's crap, which Moose later informed me he retrieved after I flew home. She says, "Oh, there's something wrong with him." He says he's a child of the Depression. Annoying as it was, I can see where he's coming from. I have the year-old positive E.P.T's to prove it.

My dad winces when you mention the Original Six hockey jerseys that were left curbside for garbage pickup, or the boxes of family photos indiscriminately tossed. But if you need several copies of the remarks made by a parishoner at a Thanksgiving Day Mass at Sacred Heart Church seven years ago, I know where you can find them (Seriously. On Moose's desk. Right now.)

A few weeks ago Moose said she was on a tear looking for something she misplaced in a recent move. In her efforts, she found an unfamiliar box. Opening it she discovered a palmful of yellowed tictacs. She showed them to Spoose.

"Oh, those are my baby teeth."

Moose laughed. "I had no idea he had them."

Neither did I. And boy, am I glad I didn't throw them out.

Monday, March 14, 2011

the birthday boy


My brother Matt turned 40 yesterday.

I'm not sure who felt older -- Matt or my mom.

I remember when he turned 30 and thinking that was over the hill. His fiancee (now wife) Margarita threw him a surprise party at his Brookline, Mass. apartment. Meg, Jamie and I flew in to be there. We got sauced on green beer and had a dance party in his living room. "Authority Song" was played, cake was eaten without utensils, and I got locked out of the house at around 4 a.m. About a dozen people passed out in that same living room, arranged like Jenga pieces in sleeping bags.

Thirty ceased sounding "old" after that night.

Forty doesn't sound so old either these days. When my folks turned 40, they had four children, two in high school. That's an old 40 (sorry mom and dad). Matt has two wee sons, the eldest being 4 (although he is about academically ready for high school), making this milestone not seem so dauntingly ancient. Hell, I'll be 33 in a couple of weeks. Just rocketing toward mid-30's, as my husband likes to remind me.

I've been thinking a lot about Matt lately. Like June, he is my parents' first born child. Also like June, he was a sweet, easy baby (my mom tells me), arriving at a time where my parents were struggling financially but at the brink of something bigger.

When Matt was born, exactly nine months after their wedding day (gross), my folks were living in Phoenix. In 1971 it was a dusty, fledgling cowboy town filled with ex-east coast mobsters, real estate speculators and other non-natives. Hardly the sprawling metropolis and snowbird haven it is today. Whenever I get down on the loneliness, the winter desolation and the expanse separating New Hampshire from "civilization" my mom says, "Oh, I've been there."

Matt was their hobby. Convenient, as they didn't have two nickels to rub together, so other pastimes were out. My mom stayed home to care for him, even though it made little financial sense. My dad, meanwhile, was flopping around between jobs, but with a laser focus on what he wanted to do.

This scenario -- plus a few dirty snowbanks, a dusty barn, and a whole lot of dog hair -- does sound awfully familiar.

From what my mom says, Matt was just pure joy as a baby, just like June. I don't know if Matt's disposition falls under the "nature" or "nurture" category, but he is the nicest guy you'll ever hope to meet. He will do anything for you and will not complain about it (an attribute that seems to shrink exponentially with birth order among Leonards). When I was in grade school, he used to craft elaborate scavenger hunts for me and my friends on gray Saturdays stuck indoors, and later, would gamely drive me around before I had my license -- and there were some faraway spots that my mom, with her hatred of expressway driving, feared to tread. Just ask Brendan about what role Matt played in his childhood. Get comfortable, as it will take a while.

Matt, not my parents, dropped me off at college my first day freshman year. He made my new roommates laugh, breaking the ice considerably, then waited through every last awkward exchange until I gave him the nod that he was ok to go.

We used to clown on him for being "nerdy" or a home body in high school (not that I had a brace-faced leg to stand on) but he would always be one step ahead with some hilarious, self-deprecating remark. I would have stormed off in tears for a lot less. Oh wait, I did.

My dad has said, "If you have skeletons in your closet, teach them to dance." Matt's Loyola Academy club team bowling trophies would be doing the watusi if they could.

Meg, Brendan and I would feign shock talking about how he landed Margarita -- a hilarious hottie who my mom and I have decided is one of our favorite people on this planet. But she adores Matt, and why wouldn't she?

Now that I'm a parent I think about how proud I'd be if I were my folks. They poured more love into that baby than he knew what to do with. But he figured it out and poured it right back into the universe.

June gets a whole lot of love from me and Greg. Like Matt, more than her little body knows what to do with. Let's hope she takes her cues from her uncle and gives it right back.

On another note, Greg let the dogs out last night: they romped, they went "potties", they walked back inside and... immediately Dilla puked on the floor. What the hell.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Like the wind. When it's not blowing.


I went running on Saturday.

Well, "running" is a bit of an exaggeration. How about, "I went shuffling."

More believable.

This was the first bit of legitimate exercise I've gotten in many moons, and the fastest I've moved since I spotted the half-off Valentine's Day candy bin at CVS. I received the thumbs-up from the midwife to exercise weeks upon weeks ago, but the weather has been too gross to do anything. Excuses, excuses.

On Saturday it was neither freezing nor precipitating in any way, a welcome break from the norm, and June was sound asleep under Greg's watchful eye. So I dusted off the ol' running pants, grabbed a dog and hit the road.

I want to be that mom to June. You know, the one you see pushing the jogging stroller with an effortless, long, athletic gait and a look of contentment on her face. The one who has made a commitment to health and is getting her family involved. The one who doesn't complain. The one I look at and say, "Oh, come on."

June's still too small for the jogging stroller, and my gait is better described as lumbering. If I were animated, there would be little poofs of dust shooting out from my knees. As for the complaining, just ask Greg.

We set out for Crystal Lake, a round trip excursion that would log us a digestible two-and-a-half miles. I barely made it across the street when I thought, "Ok, I'm over it." Dilla, the chosen dog for this venture, turned her head toward me with this look of, "Lady, you're out of your GD element" in her sad eyes. I shot back a "Screw you" snarl, then agreed with her, and powered on.

I thought about the athletic mom I'd like to be, which served as a sputtering little boost for that first leg. I was feeling all right. Well, I was wheezing and shedding tears, but it wasn't as horrible as I thought it might be. Huffing and puffing up a hill, I indulged myself in a moment of pride.

Then I looked down.

Dilla was walking.

Her legs are about nine inches long. I've seen her move at a steadier clip while she's dreaming. Walking takes actual effort for this mutt. She looked disappointed. Ashamed. Like I just caught her licking her butthole. This was somehow worse for her.

My nose was running, the sensation of butt cheeks hitting the small of my back started to get old, and I emitted a noise falling somewhere between bellow and cough. And then there was the postpartum urinary incontinence. Kegel shmegel, I needed a cork. A passing motorist waved. I bared my teeth at him.

I thought about my inactivity, the fact that I ate a half-a-sleeve of Thin Mints with an oatmeal cookie chaser the other night, and how I get winded unloading the dishwasher. Dilla sniffed the ground as she moved. No easy feat... unless one is moving so slowly they may as well be going backward.

For June, I said to myself. It ain't about you anymore, Tubby.

Greg's in good shape. He runs, he lifts weights and I haven't spotted him licking the traces of icing out of a cinnamon roll container like some people in this house. Nevertheless we're feeling the weight of winter upon us. So much so that when I go to hug him, we usually share this exchange.

Greg: "I'm sorry you married Dom Deluise."
Kerry: "I'm sorry you married Delta Burke."

He says he's headed for giant-waisted pants with suspenders. I say I'm one squirt of Magic Shell away from a muumuu.

Visions of Suzanne Sugarbaker kept me trudging on. Dilla veered off course to sniff at an empty pint of Ben & Jerry's Vanilla Caramel Fudge ice cream discarded in a snowbank. Jealousy surged within me. She advanced several feet and then peed. Jealousy surged within me again.

I shouldn't complain, for I feel very lucky that I've returned to a weight somewhat reminiscent of the pre-baby days. I gained within the recommended weight spectrum, didn't get too big or swollen, and was out of elastic waist pants in an acceptable amount of time. Now, I'm talking weight in numbers alone. This body is completely bereft of tone. I am a Mallomar. Only somehow creamier. The first actual belly laugh I witnessed from June came when she was in her bouncy seat in the bathroom -- watching me step into the shower. I can take a hint.

I kept that in mind as Crystal Lake came into view at the end of a bend in the road. I stopped to catch my breath by a private beach and squinted to see ice fishermen dotting the expanse amid puddles forming on its warming surface.

Spring, I thought. We're getting there.

Dilla turned around, familiar with the halfway point from her runs with Greg. I straightened my body and pushed off, hitting a stride more of that athletic mom, and less of the Mallomar. It felt good to have that run almost behind me and be heading back home to Greg.

Back to June.

Sh** happens when you party naked


It's Saturday morning and our austerity kick has yielded an interesting breakfast. Well, the result wasn't interesting -- egg sandwiches and coffee -- but the means to the end was. One sandwich featured a frost-bitten English muffin, one a stale butt end of bread. The coffee was also chipped out of the freezer, whole bean, organic and from a bygone era in the Trotters' grocery shopping habits (read: when the debit card could be swiped without me breaking out into a cold sweat -- and when we had a working coffee grinder). Today Greg ground (grinded? both sound funny) the coffee in a food processor. Despite internet naysayers, it turned out pretty good.

I've decided to take weekends off of the blogging so as not to burn out too quickly. June's napping and I'm psyching myself up for a run here shortly -- my first in, well, a very long time. Now if that's not post fodder, I don't know what is.

Check back on Monday to read all the disgusting details. That is, if I haven't been hospitalized.

Happy weekending, all.

Friday, March 11, 2011

teacher, mother, secret lover


Yesterday I read that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends zero television for children under age 2.

Oopsies.

Now, it's not as though we plop June in front of the tube and turn on "Keeping Up With the Kardashians" while Greg and I troll Facebook, but she has stolen glances at the occasional cooking show while she's nursing. Oh, and Sportscenter during her early morning sleepless moments with dad. Does this make us inept parents?

Ok, so maybe not. But what about *hearing* television? Because she's experienced a whole lot of that. During her first 12 weeks, June did a lot of snoozing in my arms, especially when she was sick. And maaaaybe I had the TV on a little during those moments.

Scratch that whole "a little" nonsense. Some rudimentary math tells me she's been alive for just over 100 days, so about 2,500 hours. Some more rudimentary math yields that she's spent about an eighth of her life with the drone of the TV on in the background. Oh God, what have I done??

Just to reiterate, she's been sleeping during these hours, cradled in the loving, warm, protective arms of her mother (am I scoring any more points here?). But she has, subliminally, experienced four seasons of "Friday Night Lights," numerous crappy episodic dramas, cooking shows and "Nate Berkus."

Ok, now this is getting depressing.

Jesus only knows how much Food Network accounts for my television viewing with baby in arms. I think she's smart enough now to sense it, too. She actually awoke the other day and craned her neck to steal a glimpse at Ina Garten making a lemon curd napoleon. That surprised me, as I always pegged June for a savory food gal.

Again, she's not watching these shows, but instead has slept through them while I'm watching. And this is strictly when she's on some sort of sleep strike and napping only on top of me. The TV stays off the remainder of the day while we're reading, playing or napping in her crib or swing. I'm not a monster.

But I know that hearing television has an impact. I'm living proof. When I was in eighth grade, Lauren T and Lauren E called me to come over to Lauren T's house to watch a movie.

Me: "No. I'm staying home. You guys are going to rent 'Silence of the Lambs.'"
Lauren and Lauren (on conference call): "Come on, it won't be scary. It's daytime."
Me: "Forget it. You don't know how I operate."
Lauren and Lauren: "Okay fine, we'll rent something else. Come over."
Me: "Promise?"
Lauren and Lauren: "Promise."
Me: "Don't disappoint me."

Twenty minutes on my bike later I arrive at Lauren T's to "Surprise! We got 'Silence of the Lambs'!"

Feeling betrayed but too tuckered to make the bike ride home, I grabbed Lauren T's Gamboy and retreated to her dining room while they watched the movie. Twasn't a foolproof plan, as I could hear every last syllable Hannibal Lecter uttered, all the while shakily advancing in Tetris. Not seeing one frame of that movie, I still had nightmares for weeks. Serial killers, cannibalism and interlocking geometric shapes. Terrifying.

June on the other hand might grow older and find herself with an innate knowledge of tray ceilings and shallow braising. It's not the stuff that will keep her up at night, but it might make for some superficial interests later on.

I watched a lot of TV as a kid. I mean, a lot. I'm assuming it started early, too, as I have two older siblings and we lived in small houses when we were young so squirreling me away would neither be practical nor possible. I took to it. Oh, how I took to it. My parents have collected quite the assortment of photographs of me parked in front of a television set, usually with mouth agape and mere inches away from the screen. In some I'm upright, eating breakfast with hair coiffed and ready for a rousing day at preschool. In others I'm prone on their couch, hungover, on break from college and on an old "Beavis and Butthead" tear.

I can credit television with teaching me a lot about life, love and regret. And the meaning behind the word "slut." I recall being about 10 or so and watching the Miss America Pageant with my mom. She left the room for a bathroom break for a minute and returned asking, "What did I miss?" I replied, "Not much. Just some slut with a violin."

My poor mom was rendered temporarily speechless. "Where did you learn that word??" she sputtered. I blinked, petrified that I was in trouble. She was the first to speak. "You learned it from 'Golden Girls' didn't you?"

Guilty.

I contend that I turned out just fine even after logging all those sitcom hours and premature vocabulary lessons. Hell, our family was built on television (of the quality news variety, however). If anything I've grown to having a very tepid interest in the hobby. For a solid year the TV in my Chicago condo's living room didn't have sound. I would just crank up my wee TV in my bedroom to watch occasional shows on my couch. Changing the channel meant getting up and walking to another room. This doesn't sound like the behavior of a television addict, does it?

June's changed enough in the last week that these seemingly harmless habits aren't sustainable. She's increasingly seduced by her surroundings, noises and activity, so much so that if she's nursing or resting in my arms, she'll effectively shimmy her way into the action's sight lines. The TV now stays off until she goes to sleep at night. I have developed a pretty draconian take on what I'd like her future relationship with television to be. In a word, limited. This is mostly due to my intense fear of her getting sucked into the whole branded princess cyclone. But I'm also a realist. Just like those Girl Scout Cookies, everything in moderation. Do I hear my husband laughing?

Ok, I'm off to read Shakespearean sonnets to her as she sleeps to undo some of the damage. It might make a nice soundtrack to her lemon curd napoleon dreams.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

tit for tat


Poor Greg.

Poor, poor Greg.

He woke up this morning to the dulcet sounds of a cooing baby and her doting mother in the adjoining room. He walked into said room to snuggle the baby, smiling and pink on her playmat. Mere feet away was her mother, gray and pasty, hunched in the corner with all manners of milk-extracting apparati suctioned to her person. Greg, not wearing his glasses yet, didn't immediately realize what was happening, only connecting the dots after he identified the telltale mechanic groan of the breastpump.

"Woh. I didn't realize you were, um ... doing that."

Now, Greg is no prude, in fact he's quite a champion of breastfeeding and has endured a lot in our little jugg journey. But he's become accustomed to me bleating out, "DON'TCOMEINHERE! DON'TCOMEINHERE! DON'TCOMEINHERE!" while I'm pumping so as to preserve some measure of modesty, a practice I didn't bother utilizing this morning because I thought I was being stealth.

Thought.

Mother feeding child? A beautiful, natural thing. Mother grimacing topless with vacuums tugging at her nerples in a disturbingly bovine manner? A little upsetting.

The fact that I pump at all is sort of a joke anyway. June wants no part of the bottle. When she was really young she took the occasional pumped option without a problem, then one day, after putting two-and-two together she gave me this look like, "Nice try. But I want the big ones" and that was the end of that.

Still I pump just in case she changes her mind. This morning I retrieved a clean bottle in which to pour the goods and a ladybug flew out of it, so you know how well that's going.

After scouring the bottle and doing the switcheroo, I noticed a flier from our hospital in the pile of yesterday's unopened mail. Its subject was breastfeeding in the news and included little nuggets like, "In New Hampshire last year, 78.6 percent of new mothers breastfed, but only 47 percent were exclusively breastfeeding at three months of age..."

Thankfully, June is still of the "exclusive" camp, save for the occasional morsel of Sour Cream & Onion potato chip that may cascade from my mouth and into hers during "House Hunters" marathons. Point being, she's taken very well to the practice, which wasn't always a given.

Dartmouth-Hitchcock was pretty dang good at preparing us for life at the teat, and leaving the hospital the nurses and lactation consultants gave her a "10 out of 10" on the eating front. Like mother, like daughter.

What the they failed to mention was the possibility, nay probability, that a few days after baby is born, when the chuckwagon finally rolls into town, that the mammaries will be so laughably huge that baby may be unable to eat. Like trying to latch on to a basketball. This happened to us.

Poor Greg was elected to be the one to make the calls to the lactation consultants and the pediatrician, because he was the one not weeping, and then get dispatched to rent a hospital grade pump, because he was the one wearing a shirt. After about six hours of attempted latches and a round with the pump, I found myself flopped on our bed, useless. June was a puddle herself next to me and Greg was feet away on the phone uttering the following to a nurse.

"Yes, her nipples were erect when she was through pumping."

Even in the depths of my worried, self-pitying funk I remember thinking, "Holy crap, did he really just say that?"

God bless this man. Seriously, it takes a special person to do what he's done. I was a lump on the bed -- hopeless, hapless, topless -- and he took charge and checked his heebie-jeebies at the door. I will never forget that. And I'm afraid neither will he.

Everything turned out just fine. The pump did its thing, Junie took a bottle in her desperate hour of need, and half-a-day later we were back at it, machine-free.

She's nearly 15 weeks old, which means her pediatrician might greenlight her for solids in the next month or so, or she might wait until the more standard 6-month mark. Either way I get a little sad thinking it won't just be the two of us anymore. But that's mothering I suppose. I'd rather have her growing and hitting the expected milestones than being like that sadsack kid in "The Last Emperor."

And this way Greg will be able to put his powers of mental suppression to rest for a while.

Poor, poor Greg.

(Aside: Dad, I'm sorry for using "correct" terms like "breastfeeding," "erect" and "nipples." I've peppered this post with euphemisms as well, just for you. The title is also in your honor -- "Who the hell would want 'tat'?")

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

additions and deductions


I once heard you can get up to a $6,000 tax return for having a baby.

Having completed a very dispirited jaunt through TurboTax's online filing system, I'm here to tell you that's crap and whoever said that is a bleepity-bleeping (it's Lent) liar.

Or maybe we've made grave errors in accounting or charitable giving. Meaning we didn't do either.

I was anticipating a return and now that doesn't look likely. But as I said to my mom yesterday, I'm ok with the consequences of our choice to have a child and for me to stay home because of all we got out of it. This was before I hung up and went spelunking in our freezer for some curious, ice-covered lunch options. Ahhh, money.

But seriously, I wouldn't have it any other way, and she's been unexpectedly cheap... thanks to our families. My parents and in-laws have been incredibly generous outfitting her in clothes, gear and diapers. *Incredibly* generous.

Sure there were the medical bills, but I was pleasantly surprised at the tally from our hospital stay. Hell, I would have paid that expense out of pocket for the catheter alone. Sweet, sweet catheter.

(I promised Greg I wouldn't blog about anything involving bodily functions today and there I go talking about a catheter. Sorry, Greg.)

So after a morning filled with mild-to-moderate panic, renewed hatred of numbers, and the fleeting entertainment of what a half-breed dog with an unhealthy fixation on sniffing peoples' eyes might fetch on the black market, I took June to Hanover for a walk.

Hanover is best known as the town of Dartmouth College. It's a beautiful place -- a quaint little commercial strip surrounded by the Georgian architecture, fir-topped hills and eggheads rife at ivies. But most importantly there are sidewalks in Hanover so it's a nice place to walk with a stroller. Where we live you've got to keep your head on a swivel, lest you get sideswiped by a Busch Light-fueled snowmobile transporting a field dressed eight-point buck. In Hanover one needs to simply avoid Uggs. And lots of white people. Wait, we're in New Hampshire...

Anyway, Greg's odd work hours afforded him a midday break so he met us there for a stroll around campus. As we were navigating the snowbanks in front of one of the libraries, I thought about what Greg said right after June was born: "Maybe she'll go to Dartmouth. That would be a cool turn of events, right?" I remember agreeing.

Today I thought about what a sure-thing June's college essay would be: her circular path from a beginning at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, to her years with her parents on the lam from the IRS, to her unexpected predilection for eastern languages and wind instruments, to the cluster of asterisks highlighting her distant Choctaw ancestry (on her dad's side) on her application, to an inevitable scholarship to Dartmouth. It's a beautiful story. It could happen.

We turned onto an icy sidewalk and clowned on some professor-types arguing in German. June, fighting her afternoon nap, gave us a gummy smile under heavy lids. I leaned in to fiddle with her hat, now too small and barely covering her pink ears.

Worth every penny.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Bottoms up


WARNING: Contents of this post contain graphic imagery that may be disturbing to some readers / people who may some day hire me.

I have three friends who are pregnant and due around the same time in late August / early September. Two are first-timers, one is a veteran. I'm not going to pretend that I have any sound advice to give these women, other than to just cherish every second because it flies by (and every rube tells you that), so I won't bother. Except for this: feel free to ignore all advice. It's often well meaning, but equally often useless.

A sampling of the most oft-given words:

"Get sleep now while you can!"
"Take lots of pictures!"
"Don't fret if you take a dump on the delivery bed!"

Now the former two are sort of hot air: you can't store up sleep in reserves to be used at a later date, and anyone who is 35 weeks pregnant and up is operating on vapors, so why insult the poor woman? And you're either a photo-taking person or you're not. The old man trolling the canned foods aisle at Price Chopper spinning some yarn about not getting those days back isn't going to inspire the Annie Leibovitz out of someone. And I happen to be the sort of person who takes 25 consecutive shots of my daughter sleeping with the camera set to "sports mode" (you've probably ignored them on Facebook) so that advice was a little bit overkill.

Now the last bit is one I heard in more personal settings, using hushed tones befitting an exchange of the most intimate secrets. The teller may place a warm hand atop your own, look you square in the eye and reveal this detail as though they were the only person on earth ballsy enough to do so. Meanwhile, this is practically the first thing out of the doctor's mouth during the initial office visit: "Congratulations! You and baby are healthy! I look forward to you crapping in my face in 32 weeks!" Friends revealed this, siblings revealed this, the old man in the canned foods aisle at Price Chopper revealed this. I've heard it called the "best kept secret about childbirth." Spoiler alert. Not since "The Crying Game" has a secret been more manhandled.

The thing is, I have no idea if I did the deed during delivery or not. I made Greg promise never to tell me. On the one hand, he never said, "No, you didn't" which you think someone would say if you really didn't, but on the other hand he still looks me in the eye, which I'm not sure someone who can't even say the term "bowel movement" is capable of doing after potentially witnessing such a disaster. Then again, the man went to Haiti mere days after the earthquake last year. God only knows what he's capable of compartmentalizing.

Our conversation went something like this:
Me: "Don't ever tell me whether or not I took a dump during labor, kapeesh?"
Greg: "Ok."
Me: "You can tell me if I didn't, though."
Greg: "You just said not to tell you."
Me: "But only if it's bad! Wait, never mind. Let's stop talking about this."
Greg: "Praise Jesus."

I'm pretty sure I didn't because, well, you think you'd be able to tell, right? But there was a lot going on during those 75 minutes so who really knows (besides Greg)? My right leg was completely dead from the epidural, and I was vomiting between pushes, and I still fancied myself a childbearing Shecky Greene with the jokes I was cracking, so honestly there was a lot I may have missed.

There's part of me that won't let my mind go there, but then there's the greater part that doesn't give a crap (pun intended). I got a beautiful, healthy baby out of the deal. So what's a little poop between total strangers? And my husband?

Greg, God bless him, spent a good amount of time holding the barf bucket for me, so he wasn't entirely dialed in to what was happening every second of the delivery process in that, ahem, region. But when I spoke to him on the phone earlier and told him what I was writing about he said, "I really don't think you did." Then there was a long pause and he added, "That's disgusting."

So, to-be moms, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, but I would strongly recommend not caring.

But like so much advice before this, it ain't shite.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Fighting it.


June's wailing. She's not sad, neglected or in danger in any way, she's just plum annoyed. I'm making her nap. Again. I can't complain about her reluctance to sleep in the afternoon, especially after her best night to date. She went 10-and-a-half hours straight -- 7 p.m. to 5:30 a.m. -- her first through-the-night sleep.

The baby books and Web sites have been telling me that "sleeping through the night" at her age (14 weeks) is considered a six hour stretch. I'm sorry, but both of us waking at 3 a.m. for a meal and a wardrobe change is not "through the night." Not that I mind, in fact I love getting up to see her and get a little progress report. I just don't appreciate being lied to by the baby blog lobby. It's like getting the school spirit award on athletics banquet night. That's not a real award. I see through your ruse, jerks.

Infant sleep is a peculiar thing I'm finding. June is capable of snoozing through some pretty raucous stuff: dogs barking, phones ringing, pine branches falling inches away from her bedroom window... but if I blow my nose, it will rocket her out of the deepest of slumbers. I've gotten quite good at blowing my nose softly or not at all. I caught myself recently with a piece of Kleenex jammed up one nostril. God knows how long it had been there.

I've had conversations with Greg, my parents, siblings and friends about how strange it is when babies fight naps. Clearly she's tired -- she's been power yawning for the last hour -- and to resist sleep when swaddled in a fleece blanket and tucked into the plush, rocking arms of a swing that I liken to an ether-soaked hug is nonsensical. Conversely, I think back to just this last Saturday when Greg and I met some friends at a bar for an afternoon beer and June fell asleep in my arms as I was doing a borderline violent bouncy sway. I don't know how anyone could fall asleep to that, much less not vomit in terror, but she was down for the count.

With the exception of that little recent three-week hiccup where June was sick and up at all hours of the night, it's been a while since I've felt exhausted myself. I've adjusted to the odd hours babies keep and have felt pretty good. But I've also barred myself from reclining at any semblance of an obtuse angle for fear of a pass out so hard I might hurt myself. Stay upright, stay awake. Fight it.

June's finally sleeping after exhausting all her stay-awake tricks. The squirm, the bellow, the Rodney Dangerfield-face rooting fest, the blow-out-the-diaper-to-buy-20-more-minutes-of-awake-time. She's deep in it, too. Finally.

Ok, we've been experiencing blizzard conditions and rampant power outages throughout the area all day today, but NOW the sun decides to come out of hiding and shine its white-hot rays of awakeness right into her wee eyeball? What the hell.

But wait... she still sleeps.

Don't fight it.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

I swanee


So I think I might be giving up swearing for Lent.

Yes, I know Lent is for good people.

Yes, I know Lent is 40 days long.

Yes, I know better women than I have crumpled in a heap of cusses blazing that same trail.

Yes, I know June is far from speaking.

But dammit, I'm doing it anyway.

Oh man, I just swore. DAMMIT!

Wait, it's not Lent yet.

And does damn count? If it's in the bible, is it unreasonable to give up? I mean, I guess prostitution, sodomy, booze and abuse of the word "begat" are in there, too. And I think a few people might really benefit from giving those things the 40-day heave-ho.

Being a marginally good Catholic as a youth, I always observed the Lenten tradition of sacrifice. One year it was black licorice. Another year it was lip balm. As I got older and more asshole-ish (still not Lent) I gave up broccoli. You know, all pursuits that really separate the girls from the women. My intentions were not steadfast, however, and I was one of those pansies that considered Sunday the day off. Smash cut to teeth blackened by Jelly Bird Eggs and lips so shiny one could look at them and see through time.

I said before that I was a marginally good Catholic as a grade school-aged kid... but I just remembered my confession racket. Now, I would rank "confession" as one of the more bonehead sacraments, but only because checking that one off the list didn't merit a party, presents or even a special outfit. One day you we're tainted with the sin of Adam and Eve and the next day you were clean as a whistle -- still wearing a plaid uniform skirt and not one book of McDonalds gift certificates richer. Boooring. So I suppose I never took it very seriously. I recall sauntering in to the confessional and, rather than hiding behind the screen like so many punks before me, I would sit square in front of Fr. Ferrigan and look him right in the eye. Yeah, I sinned. What? Try and fade this swagger, padre. I would then rattle off the Act of Contrition with the greatest of butt-kissing ease and start the show.

I hit my brother. I talked about a friend behind her back. I stole a dollar from my mom. I used the Lord's name in vain (that was always a good one). But I actually didn't do any of those things. I was lying to the priest. And my last sin I confessed to? Father, I lied. BLAM! Clean slate. Confession? Your ass is mine. Lest you think I was some perfect kid with no sins to own up to, I was actually too chicken shit (still not Lent) to admit to the real things -- like sitting through mass and mentally choreographing the most bitching gymnastics routine ever involving the altar and poor Jesus on the cross above it. Or having thumb wars with my dad during the readings. Or counting all the letters in one line of the Nicene Creed and conjuring up which NHL-er wore that number. And I won't even get into the swearing.

So here I sit, recalling how I made a mockery of Catholicism and I'm thinking about co-opting one of its traditions in order to make me a better mother to June. And on Sundays? It'll be like a Quentin Taranino movie in here.

Happy f***ing Easter. (still not Lent)

Friday, March 4, 2011

On vomit.


June and I recently returned from a trip to visit my family in suburban Chicago. Among the many discussions I had with my dad ("Look how cute June is," "Want to know how cute June is?" and "Isn't June the cutest?" being just a few), the subject of baby vomit came up more than once. I guess it can't be reasonably called vomit if there's no retching involved, but that's what makes it so damn fascinating. She could be smiling, gurgling, swatting at her rattling giraffe on the playmat, all the while the heady brew of breastmilk containing whatever-in-god's-name-mom-ate-an-hour-ago is staging a coup in her gut. Then boom, puke. No wincing, no crying, just a noiseless expulsion of her last meal. Then back to swatting at the giraffe like her shirt's not soaked with partially digested milk solids.

She let 'er rip earlier today while I was holding her upright and the splashing noise the spit-up made on her bedroom floor prompted Greg and I to laugh out loud and Gypsy to break into an earnest trot toward it for snacking. It took some stern commands to stem his nasty tide and buy me enough time to get at it with a baby wipe. I guess for all he knows it could be bacon grease, so why not pursue it? But I'm guessing once he realized it was not bacon grease he still would have had his way with it. Man, dogs.

I wish vomiting was that effortless and pleasant for me now as it was at June's age. When did it change? I long for those carefree days of devil-may-care booting instead of the writhing, painful, praying-for-sweet-death moments that pockmark youth to the present. My dad had me roaring the other day talking about how awful the stomach flu was as a kid (well, at any time really), but especially when he was a kid. Hot cheeks, no TV and a mother squawking, "Quit throwing up, goddammit!" all the while he was doing the telltale "uhhhhh, uhhhh, uhhhh" groans immediately preceding all hell breaking loose. At least when I was a kid we could wheel my mom and dad's TV on the microwave cart into our bedrooms and watch Bozo. As if puking wasn't bad enough. Even regarding that, my dad was giving me the "you don't know how lucky you are" treatment because when he was a kid and feeling well enough to move to the den and watch TV, he was stuck watching some show called "Garfield Goose" starring a puppet and some goofball wearing a uniform with epaulets. I still contend that Bozo sucked. Has there ever been a character of stage and screen more maddening than Wizzo? Besides Jar Jar Binks? In fact, I remember looking at the kids lined up in front of the Bozo Buckets and imagining hurling into them... after removing the Twinkie, of course.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, spit up. Poor gal. But actually, not poor gal. Lucky gal. It's all downhill from here.

I don't have a job, so why not write for free?


Okay, here we go. First post. No pressure. No need to be profound. Just start clickity-clacking and something good will seep out.

Hmmm. Seep. Gross.

Why is that picture so dang huge?

I'm not kidding myself in thinking this "mommy" blog is going to be any better or more insightful than the tens of thousands of others, but hey, use it or lose it, right?

Seriously, why is that picture so freaking big? Does anyone know anything about this stuff?

June's sleeping in her swing at the moment, but it's not going well. Dogs are ambling about, the phone's been ringing, and every little creak of our ancient farm house is forcing her eyes open. She's like a little ventriloquist's dummy -- quiet, still, almost implausibly pink. Then with the flick of a wrist she's awake. And pissed. And almost implausibly red. June could not be a happier baby, but the gal doesn't like being tricked into sleep. And that's exactly what the swing is: a cheap, underhanded ploy at prompting nappage. But now her eyes are closed and have stayed closed for about five minutes. Hallelujah.

It's about two degrees out today and Greg has the day off so we're heading to an indoor pool to splash around for a bit. It will be June's first dip in a pool, and given her unease around bathtime, it could be abbreviated. Although, this place has a lazy river and if one can fashion a Punnett Square around genetic predispositions for liking lazy rivers, this gal has one dominant-ass gene for liking lazy rivers. Now to buy a swim diaper. I had no idea such things existed. I could use one of those for when I go to the ocean, because just TRY and get me to not pee in the water. Can't be done. Find that gross? Then why is it you never see bathrooms at beaches? Think about it.

Well, this was a pretty lame first post. But they'll get more pizzazzy. I promise. I think.